Rain, Rain on My Face
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: The rain is steady now, unyielding. It's cold against his skin, and he feels it wash the blood away. He wonders if it should be a consolation that if he dies, he'll die clean.


Title: Rain, Rain On My Face

Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.

A/N: I don't even know how old this ficlet is. I just have random fic I lose track of on my computer, but since sockie1000 was nice enough to beta this, I figured I might as well post it :)

Summary: The rain is steady now, unyielding. It's cold against his skin, and he feels it wash the blood away. He wonders if it should be a consolation that if he dies, he'll die clean.

-o-

Billy hears the first raindrop fall.

Fat and heavy, plucked from the sky and sent barreling to earth. It shatters on the ground, not far from his head, and when he opens his eyes, he can see the small, wet smudge on the pavement.

He remembers this, the smell of rain in the air, the low overhang of clouds. When his father was drinking, he'd learned better than to go home, and he found hideaways all over the neighborhood. Sometimes, he climbed a tree; sometimes, he tucked himself in a nook under the back porch in the garden, spending long hours waiting for time to finally move on.

He was a rambunctious boy at school, but at home he lived simple, and if he wanted everyone to see him at school it was only because he wanted no one to see him at home. He preferred the solitude to a firm hand, and stayed out past dark when his mother sat on the porch and started to fret.

Under the porch, he could hear the raindrops thump on the slats above him, small thunks that grew steadier and stronger, until water dripped through the boards and Billy huddled closer into his nook for fear of getting wet. It was harder in the trees, but more magical too, as the leaves thwaped together and rustled, as if coming to life beneath his tenuous grip.

For all that he liked the sound of the rain as a boy, he'd never much liked being wet, and he'd been known to stay out all night to avoid a damp walk home.

Now, it seems, he has no choice.

The second raindrop falls above his head. The third, no more than a second later, lands on his stomach before another hits his cheek. By the time the fifth and sixth fall, he's blinking up at the sky just in time to see the deluge.

The storm is sudden, and it's not violent despite a low rumble of thunder in the distance. There's shelter, he thinks, and not too far, but far enough. He will never make it there, not in the condition he's in. Battered ribs; broken leg; dislocated shoulder; concussion.

That's just what he can suss out. He doesn't dare move to reckon the rest.

His cover had been blown, and they'd rained blows upon him. He knows his team will be coming.

He's just not sure they'll be fast enough, especially with this weather slowing them down.

He's been beaten and left for dead.

He fears the raindrops will beat the rest of his life away. That's how it is with rain, after all. It replenishes and it renews, but only after all that is dirty has been washed away. He's always feared, even as a boy, that under his antics and his grime, there was nothing left of him to salvage. That all that matters to him will be washed away, like dirt and mud down the drain of the tub.

The rain is steady now, unyielding. It's cold against his skin, and he feels it wash the blood away. He wonders if it should be a consolation that if he dies, he'll die clean.

It's not.

Billy clenches his fist, and feels raindrops drip off his nose. His hair is dripping and his clothes are drenched.

The tears come, and he has no power to stop them. Because it hurts and he's tired, and he's far too old for this. He's not the boy in Scotland, running from his father's hand. He can't dodge the raindrops, and sooner or later, if he doesn't try to run home, he'll just never get there at all.

He doesn't know if he's crying anymore, he can't tell the difference with the water running down his face. It's numbness now, seeping into his bones.

He's lost count of the droplets now, one after the other after the other, endless and relentless until Billy should really stop the facade and quit. He's not fooling anyone except perhaps himself. He reckons that's how it's always been.

His team is still coming, he's sure of that. Hell or high water, he thinks ironically.

So Billy counts the raindrops to a hundred, a thousand, and he'll keep counting until infinity stretches - or until they finally, mercifully stop.

Whichever comes first.


End file.
